And Other Things Ending In 'Olly'
by Xx starlight-moon xX
Summary: Just a Hogswatch-themed oneshot collection, really. Ho. Ho. Ho.  Oh, and my first attempt at Discworld fanfic, so reviews would be wonderful.
1. Albert

**A / N : I'm on a Discworld kick at the moment, and it's nearly Christmas . . . which is how this came about. A collection of Hogswatch-themed oneshots, set at varying stages in canon, and involving as many characters as I can find inspiration for. I haven't written properly for a while, and I've never tried the Discworld fandom, so this could go either way, really! But I'm having fun so far. :)**

**Reviews would be treasured, and I'm open to character suggestions - I've read or am reading most of the 38 books, my only real blank spot being the Witches novels. (I haven't got to those yet.) I'd love to know how I'm doing though. **

**To start us off - Albert! Set some years after the events of 'Hogfather'. **

* * *

It was silent, in Death's house. The master had gone on his rounds, taking the rodent with him - FOR COMPANY, as he put it.

It had been years since the Hogswatch fiasco, and the master had – to Albert's eternal gratitude - never taken it into his head to don the pillow and beard again. But he hadn't seemed able to forget. Every year, around Hogswatch, he got a little strange – withdrew into himself (more so than a skeleton in a cowl of blackest night might normally do) – and took the hourglasses of small children from the shelves with a look that was, well . . . as sombre as a seven-foot skeleton, whose very form requires him to assume a permanent grin, could possibly look. It was around this time that Albert could sense them the most, all the dangerous questions lining up unspoken inside that hood, all the ones beginning with little human noises like _"why . . .?"_

It was best to let the master work, at a time like this.

Albert, of course, was the sort of man who believed sufficient monotony did not inspire depression, but rather helped ward it off.

And so it was that Hogswatch found Albert himself in the kitchen, pudding sizzling in the pan with the finest cuts of pork he'd been able to procure (all gristle and lard lumps, and hardly _any _meat) because, well, you had to make some concession to the day. Get into the spirit of things, as it were, even if your surroundings refused to acknowledge the passing of time at all, and the master hadn't quite got the hang of holly.

Albert watched the fat spit in the pan, aware that his thoughts were wandering. He was getting old, that was the trouble. The world was too full of new, young things – Susan and that Rat and wizards who used machines to do their magic for 'em, if you don't mind, and now these, what-choo-ma-call-'em . . . _clacks towers . . . . . _the world was changing, suddenly, it seemed, and living . .. . well, it wasn't really living, in a world where nothing changed. Was it?

He spat on the flagstones. He was thinking too much, again. Stewing in his own thoughts, letting himself get _lonely, _just because it was bloody Hogswatchnight. (Somewhere.)

He prodded the pudding, grunting in satisfaction as a globule of slowly swelling fat slid beneath the surface.

"Pudding's nearly done," he grumbled aloud.

He sat and watched it bubble for a while, grease crisping the underside to perfection.

Another job. That was what he needed. Another job. Something to take his mind off it.

He was pacing, unaware of it, and then he had shambled to a shabby, painted stretch of wood in the wall which might have been a door and might have been a cupboard, and anywhere but in the house of Death, would have housed the boiler, and some oily rags.

There were oily rags alright, because Albert felt that lack of grease, oil, or general grime in a kitchen was letting the side down somehow, but there wasn't a boiler. Instead, grubby and ashamed-looking, its paintwork dulled by dust . .. a rocking-horse huddled.

Albert regarded it for a long, silent moment.

He patted the wooden flank, and wiped a rag across the horse's neck, spreading the grime a little further. Dust – turned gritty by the damp – clustered into the grooves of the wooden mane, and into carved eyesockets that would never blink it free. Albert stood on one leg, leaning against the door, and surveyed his handiwork with short-sighted intensity. At last he gave a rhuemy sniff of approval, and pulled the horse free.

Well that had helped, hadn't it? Something to do, something solid to look at. _Something from the way the world __**used **__to be, _a crotchety old voice whispered at the back of his mind. _Before Hogswatch was all about Captain Carrot Watchman figures and Real Agatean Ninjas. Back when a rocking horse would last you three generations, if the winters were mild. Built to last, these things. Nothing you can change about a rocking-horse. _

Albert regarded the horse for another silent eternity, as his mind wandered down this path, halting occasionally along the way to gripe and reminisce about The Old Days in general, when men were men, wizards were wizards and winters, hah, winters were really _winters. _

Then he swung one leg up, muttering to himself, and settled in the saddle.

The pudding on the hob began to fry dry, smoke curling in black wisps towards the ceiling.

From in front of the fire, there came a steady creaking, as of geriatric bones on old wood. Albert lurched back and forth, humming a tuneless ditty of his own devising. (It was no doubt intended to be festive, but in reality bore more resemblance to the sort of tune composed by the falling-down drunk after a night of overindulgence. The sort accompanied by lewd lyrics about hedgehogs, or custard. Or goblins in pointy hats.)

This continued for some time, and then – shortly before arthritis could set in and bugger all sentiment – Bertie Malich smiled.


	2. William de Worde

**A / N : Next up, William de Worde! This is set slightly after 'The Truth', at the end of which William and Sacharissa's relationship is hinted at but left hanging. This is just a little something that popped into my head, because it's Hogswatch, after all, and some things you just _have _to do. **

**Reviews would be lovely, as always! And seeing as I forgot to mention it last chapter - I am not Terry Pratchett, nor do I own any of his wonderful novels or characters. I'm just borrowing them for a little while. **

* * *

It had been Otto's idea – these things were _always _Otto's idea - and Sacharissa had gone along with it, because, she said, it was The Done Thing in serious business, and the Times was an Esteemed Publication now. Besides, it'd be good for the staff.

William, however, was quite sure she'd simply wanted an excuse to buy and flaunt her new dress – an exuberantly festive exhibit of red and green velvet, with gold braid trimming the bodice and waist. She looked, to be frank, as though she had stolen the curtains from a Hogswatch grotto and fitted them to her form.

And he couldn't take his eyes off her.

It was Otto's fault. "But it is Hogsvatch, Villiam! Ve vill have a party, for ze whole office! Von't it be vonderful?" And he'd beamed, in that special way Otto had, radiating childish enthusiasm and just a hint of tooth. And that had been that. No saying no.

The press lay quiescent in the centre of the room, strewn with hastily fashioned newspaper streamers, and The Press lolled and lurched against it, in varying states of inebriation. The ratio of dwarf to human on the payroll of The Times meant that alcohol would never have been in short supply. Tonight, it seemed quite likely the staff of The Mended Drum would end up begging for barrels back from Gleam Street. William was beginning to suspect so much beer required a license of some kind, though his attempts to put this question to his colleagues had simply resulted in much drunken nose-tapping and conspiratorial digs in the stomach.

He took another mouthful of something that tasted altogether too strong to be mulled wine, and gazed gloomily at the press. The Times had swallowed up his every waking hour for almost a year now, but now, when he could really use the distraction . . .

William sighed. It wasn't that Sacharissa was his sort of girl. Not at all, really. It was just that, well . . . The Times had thrown them together, day after day, and it was funny how a person became quite fond of all those annoying little habits a co-worker had. Funny how the thrill of a new story could charge a gaze with excitement and possibility. Funny how sharing an inkwell became a casual sort of intimacy, and funny how an Editor-in-Chief could snap at the sight of a handsome young man wasting his prize journalist's time.

Funny, how a person could work for a year, hardly stopping to draw breath in the helter-skelter world of The Times, and then - like noticing that change in the light which signals encroaching evening - look up at Sacharissa lighting a candle and realize that he was in love.

_No, _William thought after a moment's reflection. _That's not funny at all. _

She was in the corner, replying to the Hogswatch cards. Otto, stationed somewhere behind her making small talk, caught William's eye and flashed him the sort of exaggerated wink that sent all the blood in the editor's body rushing to his face. _Oh gods. It was that obvious_.

Otto melted away. William downed the rest of his wine in one, dabbed his collar dry, and crossed the room.

Sacharissa looked up as he approached, and smiled. "Oh, hello. Happy Hogswatch, William."

She surveyed the mass of drunken dwarfs, and raised her voice a little, the better to be heard above twenty variations on that old dwarf classic, "An Ode To Gold". "

"Hmm. I'd say it's turned out quite well, wouldn't you? William?"

William blinked. _No, I wouldn't, _he thought_. _"Yes," he answered instead, somewhat mechanically.

Sacharissa frowned. "Are you alright?"

_No, _William thought frantically. _I'm not alright. You're wearing what looks like a pair of curtains and despite years of instruction on what constitutes "haute couture", despite the evidence of my own eyes . . . . I've never seen anything more attractive in my life. Help me, someone, please. _

He was still standing, swaying a little as the wine took effect. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and . .. Sacharissa was suddenly before him, her forehead furrowed with concern, a steadying hand upon his shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, and then her gaze slid past him, to a little sprig of something green, pinned to the point where the ceiling tapered off above their heads.

"Mi-ugh . . um .. ." She coughed, cheeks as red as the Hogfather's coat.

William swallowed. This was it. Now or never. The velvet of Sacharissa's dress pressed against his shirt, driving the air from his lungs, weighing heavy on his sleeve. He pulled her closer on instinct, and prayed that for once in his life he might accomplish suave.

"Mistletoe," he agreed, and kissed her.


	3. Polly Perks

**A / N : Alrighty then .. . Polly Perks! Set a little while after 'Monstrous Regiment'. This contains shades of Polly / Mal, though nothing explicit. I'm not a huge femmeslasher by any means, but it did seem to fit here. If anyone opposes the ship I understand - it's not strictly canon, after all - but I'd still really appreciate an opinion on the writing. Likewise, if it's a favourite ship of yours I'd love to know how I did! **

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* * *

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The snow settled around her boots and soaked into her cloak as Polly sat huddled by the fire. She was starting to feel as though she had been carved of ice. Movement would keep her warm, she knew, but it seemed like so much effort. It was better to slump here by the fire, and wait for its warmth to wade sluggishly towards her.

Lost in her own thoughts, Polly didn't realize something else was wading through the slush until Mal skirted the fire and dropped neatly onto the log beside her. She was shivering, but Polly suspected this was for effect, as she seemed quite at home in the cold, really. Given that she'd probably spent years sleeping in a crypt in some freezing castle, this was hardly surprising.

"Happy Hogswatch," she said, pulling something out of the folds of her cloak. (Mal, naturally, had just so happened to have a cloak stashed in her pack. Polly and the rest of the troops were making do with the ones they'd found in a barn, which were scratchy, impossibly heavy, and smelled strongly of horse. They were, however, an extra layer against the cold, and therefore not to be sneezed at, even if you did have to dislodge the occasional dormouse in order to get comfortable.)

"Happy Hogswatch," Polly muttered, watching the flask in Mal's hands. It seemed to radiate heat, even from a distance. As the top came unscrewed, she inhaled deeply. _Coffee_. She'd been running on scubbo and saloop for days now, sloshed about water-thin in her stomach. Mal's coffee smelled _good. _It smelled like the sort of thing that might settle in her stomach and keep her standing up straight for days.

Her friend passed her the tin cap of the flask, filled to the brim with hot brown . . . warmth. Polly managed a shiver this time, in gratitude.

"Klatchian finest," Mal declared. "This stuff could have a drunk sober and out the other side."

"Thanks, Mal."

Mal waved a hand, reclining against the log. It was one of those things about being a vampire, Polly reflected. Where she slumped like a sack of old potatoes, Mal _reclined, _with the sort of effortless ease that got dar- damn annoying after a while. She'd kept the male uniform too, kept Maladict, where Polly had abandoned Ozz. She was just better at it - _all_ of it. The casual elegance that left girls swooning in every town they passed through, the easy, almost idle way she gave orders to the troops, the . .. the unease that had kept Polly wondering, all that time . . .

She was sure she shouldn't still feel it now, or catch herself tagging the 'a' onto 'Maladicta' a heartbeat too late.

Mal smirked. "Do you remember," she yawned, "when they said it'd all be over by Hogswatch?"

Polly paused in her coffee to give a contemptuous snort. "That's asking for a Hogswatch miracle."

There was soft laughter at this, and Polly swallowed much too quickly, scalding her tongue.

"When will it be over then, sarge?"

Mal's question was delivered with a wry, knowing edge. She wasn't asking for an opinion – she was asking, quite simply, with only a note of mildest, deadpan curiosity, _when Polly was going to end it_.

It was a fortifying thought.

Polly glared at her coffee. "It'll be over," she said grimly, "the minute I catch up with Prince Heinrich and boot him up the backside. Let's see if he's so keen to bother Borogravia when he's got bruises on _both _sides."

Mal whistled. "We-ll, he'll have trouble getting on his horse for a start . . ."

This got a genuine laugh, complete with sniffing and coughing and coffee slopped onto the snow. And that was good – laughter was good, in a siege. It helped keep you sane, helped keep you _you. _

In reality, Polly's plan was to break free of the surrounding Zlobenian troops and find a way to the nearest operational clacks tower. Mr William de Worde, at The Ankh-Morpork Times, would find himself the recipient of a number of messages from an irate citizen of Borogravia. Commander Vimes would get a number of up-to-the-minute updates from a cherry pancake, and if Heinrich didn't have the sense to fear Polly and her little lads, he'd _certainly _learn to fear Vimes The Butcher and the might of the Ankh-Morpork dollar. And then there was everyone else in S-M Jackrum's little black book.

Her hand came up to the baccy pouch slung about her neck, and she coughed. Polly had never liked chewing tobacco, but the pouch was a handy bluff – it kept the things that mattered close to hand, and no-one looked twice at it. Best of all, it was a dull brown leather. Not remotely feminine. No connection with trinkets and keepsakes, and hardly anyone would guess what it contained.

Let's see . ..

There was the sketch Paul had posted to the nearest barracks. No words – there had been no need. Just Paul and her father, and Shufti, and the baby too, standing outside the Duchess. And perched on top of the sign as though it had been placed there, a single magpie. _(One for sorrow.)_

There were the names and addresses she needed, the purpose that pulled her forward.

And there was . . . space.

The coffee was still blazing in her stomach, and Mal sat just inches away, watching her friend's breath coil into mist with an expression that was almost peaceful - though this being Mal, 'languid' was probably a better word.

Polly's next words were hesitant, spoken more to the fire than anything else. But she knew Mal would be listening.

"I've been thinking, about what you said before."

"And what's that?" Mal murmered.

"Beans. Do you remember? "A necklace of coffee beans", you said, only I wasn't really listening." The words tumbled from her in a rush, like some ill-fated cavalry charge. "And I couldn't do what Otto . . . the stake . . . I understand why he said it, but I couldn't do it then, and I don't think I could do it now. But it was a good idea, the beans, and I didn't really listen . . ." Polly swallowed, and pulled herself together. "I was thinking I might keep some in here," she finished, winding the pouch-string around her fingers. "With my things. It's not as obvious as a necklace, and well . . . in case of emergencies, you know. It can't hurt to double up, can it? To have two people . .. er, looking out for you."

There was a pregnant pause. Mal broke it, but quietly, as though afraid of displacing something.

"I'm a vampire, Polly. You understand that, don't you? We're not – we don't – if it weren't for the coffee you'd be _brunch. _We're just no good at . . . family . . ."

"Friendship?"

"Relationships." It was toneless, a word that could mean nothing or anything, and Mal's voice was distant, as though she felt the way Polly did – like a spectator, viewing the scene from the outside. There was a fire, and coffee, Polly and . . . Mal.

Polly's fingers were closed tight around her little bag of secrets, Mal's fingers clenched in her pocket, around a handful of beans hidden from view.

Stalemate.

But it was Hogswatch, wasn't it? Even if she quite wasn't sure what she was offering, it was Hogswatch, and on Hogswatch-night, a minor miracle might not be too much to ask for.

Polly took a deep breath. She wasn't sure what she was offering – that was true enough. But it was Hogswatch-night, and so, slowly and deliberately, she opened her fingers and offered it anyway.


	4. Rufus Drumknott

**A / N : This was written before Christmas, but I haven't been able to log in to the site until now, so I'm sorry it's so late, but relieved to be able to post it at last! **

**So here we are . .. . Rufus Drumknott! I've got a soft spot for Drumknott, although I have no idea why. Still, he captures my imagination somehow, and Margolotta's visit to Ankh-Morpork in 'Unseen Academicals' provided a lot of Vetinari / Margolotta entertainment, especially on the topic of Drumknott. "The world would be a funny place if we were all the same, madam, although not, I admit, if we were all like Drumknott." You've got to love a man even Havelock Vetinari thinks is a bit dry. **

* * *

Rufus Drumknott was not a particularly festive-minded man. It wasn't that he was mean-spirited, or of a cast of mind that frowned on frivolity. He simply didn't see the point of it. Fun and larks were all very well, but they tended to be rather messy, and were, frankly, a bit of a headache to file. And Rufus liked files. Systems, order, and routine – these were the pillars upon which his world rested, the elephants of Drumknott's personal Disc. The dignataries and merchants who passed through the Oblong Office were quick to dismiss him as petty, to deride Drumknott as a small-minded little man who couldn't see past his own paperclips. They were, of course, quite wrong.

Rufus was not small-minded but _single-_minded, and with good reason – he was after all the Patrician's chief clerk. The fate of the city might be in Vetinari's hands, and it was certainly true that there was scarcely anything he didn't have a finger on in some way, but the detail – the _detail – _that was Drumknott's domain. The Patrician had a fondness for metaphors, and Drumknott had gone so far, once, as to consider the matter this way. If Vetinari was a clock - a steady pendulum steering the city towards the future – then Drumknott was the oil in the clockwork, ensuring everything ran swiftly and above all, _punctually_. (He had paused at this point to reflect that Commander Vimes was likely to be a tightly wound spring caught somewhere in the mechanism.)

No. Rufus wasn't a petty man. He didn't dismiss fun, as such – he simply didn't see what could be more enjoyable than a neatly ordered filing cabinet. He had always found Hogswatch, as a result, to be a rather puzzling time of year, despite its tendency to leave all manner of new fountain pens, paperclips, pins, and writing-sets in its wake. (Hogswatch gifts to Drumknott tended towards a particular theme.)

The Patrician, to Rufus' relief, had proved a perfectly sensible employer. He had never, for instance, offered his staff the day off on a whim of sheer goodwill, with no regard for the rosters. Nor had he ever decided on the spur of the moment to throw a Hogswatch party for fifty of his most charming acquaintences, thoroughly alarming the accountants. And he had never – Drumknott shuddered – ordered his staff to get into the Hogswatch spirit by donning _jolly paper hats_. Indeed, in many respects Lord Vetinari was an ideal employer.

But there's always _something. _

Drumknott oiled his way noiselessly into the room, settled the annual report from the Guild of Assassins on his lordship's desk, and then halted. He coughed.

"Yes, Drumknott?"

Lord Vetinari paused in his examination of the Thud board to regard his head clerk with one eyebrow coolly cocked. A fraction of his attention now rested on Drumknott. For a moment, Rufus thought he might lose his nerve.

Best come out with it, he decided, and quickly, for heaven's sake, _quickly_.

"It's - it's about the cards, my lord."

Vetinari frowned. His eyebrow rose just a fraction higher. "Cards?"

"Yes, my lord. The Hogswatch cards."

Lord Vetinari, as Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork, was naturally considered a powerful political force. As he actively sought to prevent needless military action and practiced the put-upon art of diplomacy (if not democracy), this meant there were many important personages, scattered all across the Disc, who considered it prudent to send him little tokens of their esteem from time to time. Hogswatch, a holiday widely celebrated in Ankh-Morpork, was considered as good an excuse as any other to do so. Unfortunately the Patrician favoured an uncluttered office, and so displayed the cards in the waiting room outside. This, he said, gave the impatient something to look at, and the impertinant a reason to reconsider any complaints.

Drumknott bore the cards patiently, but there seemed to be no hard-and-fast rule with regards to taking the blasted things down. Every year they strained his nerves, and frankly, it was becoming a concern. He pressed on.

"I had wondered, my lord, if I might schedule a time to retrieve them? Six'o'clock this evening would suit, if your lordship has no objection."

Vetinari blinked. "You are aware that today is Hogswatch, Drumknott?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Perhaps tomorrow instead, my lord."

Both eyebrows were raised at this, and then the Patrician waved a hand. "Certainly, Drumknott. Tomorrow is quite long enough to keep them on display, I'm sure."

"Thank you, sir."

"May I ask _why?"_

Rufus relaxed. "Oh, I'd like to file them, your lordship."

Vetinari stared. "Pardon? I'm quite sure I misheard . . ."

"I'd like to file them, my lord," Rufus repeated patiently.

"_All _of them?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Even the one from the Klatchian embassy? The camel in the Hogswatch hat? I seem to recall that one was particularly, ah . . droll."

Drumknott winced. Most of the cards were variations upon a similar theme, although he did have a certain regard for the one sent by the Low King of the Dwarfs. Dwarf craftsmen had managed to gild not just the edges but the paper _itself_, and had printed the standard Hogswatch greeting reverentially upon it, in silver overlay. The dwarfs had a great respect for words, and believed nothing written ought to be carelessly disposed of. It was, Rufus felt, a sound philosophy. It was just a shame such reverence was fated to share space with the Hogswatch camels and comedy Hogfathers of the mantlepiece.

Nevertheless.

"Important communiqués between heads of state, sir." Drumknott paused, uncertain of how to proceed. "Of course, if your lordship would care to personally retain any of the cards, I could quite easily leave them out of the equation. Just as long as they are accounted for, you understand."

He reddened a little.

Drumknott was thinking in particular of the card depicting a bleak, snowy landscape somewhere in Uberwald. The card contained nothing more than the standard, dull greeting and well-wishes of the season, and it certainly didn't look to have attracted his lordship's attention more than the others. But then, with the Patrician one could never be entirely sure. There was something about Lady Margolotta that made Drumknott uneasy – he had never encountered someone so unnervingly similar to Lord Vetinari, for one thing, and for another, she remained, even to Drumknott, an unknown quantity. He shuddered to think what she might throw into disarray.

(Although her librarian, Miss Healstether, was quite different. _She _was certainly stimulating company – a very sensible woman. She was the first person to have paid proper attention to Drumknott's explanation of the precise physics involved in his new _lever arch _ring binder, and though he knew the thought bordered on immodest . . . well, he secretly felt she'd been rather impressed.)

Vetinari's gaze, however, had returned to the Thud board. He raised a troll piece and examined it quite impassively before setting it down again. His fingers fluttered briefly over a dwarf positioned near the centre of the board, in what Drumknott suspected was dangerous territory. Rufus swallowed. He wasn't sure his nerves could take a cough, or a clearing of the throat. But the Patrician seemed to recollect himself without the need for a prompt.

"My apologies," he said smoothly. He gestured towards the board. "Such an engrossing game, I find. One forgets it is merely a frivolity."

"I have never played, my lord."

Vetinari shot him a sharp look. "Indeed, it would appear not, Drumknott . . ." He moved away from the board, and took his seat once more at the desk. "File all the cards you wish. I have no further use for them."

Drumknott bobbed his head in scarcely-suppressed relief. "Thank you, sir."

He hurried out.

It was only when the door had firmly closed behind him that he allowed himself to exhale, and only when he reached the privacy of his own office that he allowed himself a smile. Order, at last! He selected a folder and settled it on his desk in preparation.

Rufus let his fingers brush the metal teeth, and felt his smile shrink, inexplicably.

_Lever arch, _he thought absently._ Miss Healstether would have approved of that. _


End file.
